


Under the Big Black Sun

by HarveyWallbanger



Category: Repo Man (1984)
Genre: Alcohol, Homophobic Language, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-08-06 04:04:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16381052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarveyWallbanger/pseuds/HarveyWallbanger
Summary: Draw the curtains, already.





	Under the Big Black Sun

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this story comes from the name of an album by X.  
> While I wouldn't consider any of the content in this story offensive, especially considering the tone of the movie, please bear in mind that the characters have exactly the kinds of attitudes one would expect them to have.  
> I am not involved in the production of Repo Man, and this school is not involved in the production of Repo Man. No one pays me to do this. Do not try any of this at home. Thank you, and good night.

Nothing really changes at night. That was the most disappointing thing to learn, growing up. It was the same old place in the dark as in the light.  
But, no, that’s not true. The places might not have changed, Otto learned eventually, but the people weren’t the same. There were two sets. There were daytime people, and nighttime people. Maybe Otto’s parents were once nighttime people. His dad had played in a blues band. His mom was briefly a cage dancer. Then, they changed. They became mid-afternoon people. Heavy-lidded and settled-down by five pm, anesthetized in front of the TV.  
Otto’s a nighttime person. Ever since he felt like there was a choice, he was a nighttime person. Bud’s a nighttime person, too. Initially, Otto thought that it was all repo men who were like that, but it’s not all of them. Some of them are daytime people. Otto doesn’t even really see them at night. They recede. They go wherever daytime people go at night. No, Otto, corrects himself bitterly; he knows exactly where they go. To their TV sets and curtains, and their beer or their grass or their fucking pills. They go to sleep. It’s better to stay awake. Otto’s always known that.  
But where do nighttime people go in the daytime? Most of the time, Bud just keeps going, and Otto’s with Bud so often, now, that he keeps going, too. He, Otto, has been up for twenty-four hours, and doesn’t feel the need to get down. Bud never told him about getting down as a repo man, anyway. It has to happen sometime. There have to be downers to go with the speed. They haven’t yet made an appearance, though. Maybe Bud never sleeps. Sometimes, Otto sees him under florescent lights and thinks he looks like a vampire.  
Just as Otto starts to worry about things, though, it’s night, and there’s a job to do. It’s always a lot of sitting and waiting, before sudden, sometimes violent action, but even the waiting’s okay. Waiting is doing nothing, but with a purpose. Strange things happen in the dark. There’s always something to see at night. Even if it’s just animals wandering around, looking lost, looking weirdly fragile, like they’re made of wire and glass, their paws seeming to barely touch the ground.  
“That’s a weird-looking dog,” Otto says absently.  
“Coyote,” says Bud. “They come down from the hills, go through the trash. Sometimes, mutilate someone’s cat. Sometimes, it’s someone’s dog. Mountain lions, too.”  
“Coyotes mutilate mountain lions?” Otto asks, smiling. He knows what Bud means.  
“No, mountain lions come down from the hills, too. I saw one, once, dragging a baby away.”  
“No shit.”  
“None at all.”  
Then, there’s no more of that, because they do their job. After that, there’s another one. After that, there’s no more, and the sky’s getting pale, and Otto starts to get nervous. Shit. Maybe he’s the vampire. He’s about to ask Bud what Bud’s going to do now, when Bud announces that they’re going to get drunk.  
Should’ve known.  
They’re sitting in the car on one of those residential streets that isn’t even alive before eight in the morning when Bud makes his move.  
“What the fuck?” Reflexively, Otto puts his hand up to his mouth.  
“No?” Bud shrugs. “All right.” He drains his beer, tosses the can out the window.  
“Fuck you. What made you think I would?” He’s panicking, now, really panicking, in a way he can’t even really get a handle on, so he can tell himself what he wants to do next and how to do it. Guys try to pick you up all the time, but it’s never like that. It’s never been someone Otto’s known. By the time people get to know him, they know that he’s not like that. Why doesn’t Bud know?  
“Most do.”  
Otto narrows his eyes. “Shut the fuck up.” Then: “Oh. Cos you pay for it.”  
“The world is a lot less narrow than you may perceive it to be.”  
“What the fuck does that mean?”  
“It means that whether someone is young and horny or old and drunk, people are lot more willing in moments of desperation than they’ll make themselves out to be in non-desperate moments.”  
“I’m not that desperate. I’m not desperate.” Fuck Bud. There’s Leila. Leila’s proof. Girls like that don’t just fuck you if there’s something wrong with you.  
“All right, then.”  
Otto doesn’t say anything for a while. Neither does Bud. They keep drinking. That the silence doesn’t seem to bother Bud makes it bother Otto even more. “What were you going to do? Fuck me in the back of the car, with the garbagemen watching?”  
“No. If you were amenable, I was going to propose driving to my home.”  
It’s strange that he’s never thought of Bud actually living anywhere. It bothers him, for some reason, the thought of Bud living someplace. Having a bed to sleep in. A closet full of his clothes. Sitting down at a kitchen table, drinking coffee, or something.  
“Yeah, and what then?”  
“I assumed that some negotiations would be involved, but ideally, we’d both get off.”  
He thinks of Leila. He thinks of Debbi. It couldn’t possibly be like it is with them or any other girl. In a basic way, it would be different. Shit, it has to hurt. Against his will, he thinks about Duke in juvie. Another flash of panic. He looks out the window until it passes. He looks back at Bud. He can’t imagine Bud hurting him, which just makes it worse, somehow. If it doesn’t hurt, what happens? Otto knows some of it. Can guess the rest. That’s not the same as hearing Bud say it, though.  
“How do you do it?”  
Bud laughs. “Do you want me to draw you a fucking picture?”  
“You said ‘negotiations’, so there have to be different ways.”  
“Sure. But you’re not interested.”  
“Why me?”  
“Why not?”  
Otto crosses his arms over his chest. “Do you try this with every guy you meet?” He doesn’t want to think about that.  
“What do you think I am, some kind of slut?” Otto wants to laugh, but he knows that he can’t.  
“Why’d you think I’d say yes?”  
“You don’t look queer, if that’s what you’re asking.”  
“Yeah. I know. You don’t, either.” Though, of course, that was what Otto had assumed the very first time he met Bud. It turns out he wasn’t wrong.  
“I’m relieved to hear it. I was serious about going home, though, so do you want me to drop you off someplace, or do you want to get out and walk?”  
It’s almost light out. People are going to start to appear on the street. Life is going to start again. Fuck. Otto hates it. “Just start driving. I’ll tell you when to stop.”  
He doesn’t want to be by himself. He should find Leila. He should go back to the yard. He doesn’t want to be around anybody else, either. Being with Bud’s like being alone, but, like, you’re constantly talking to yourself so that you don’t feel like you’re alone. Maybe that’s the difference, more than anything. It wouldn’t really be like it is with another person.  
At a stop light, Otto turns to look at Bud. Bud’s looking ahead, an unlit cigarette in his mouth. “Okay. But no fag stuff.”  
Bud laughs, the cigarette bobbing up and down as he speaks. “No fag stuff. Let me tell you something: it’s all queer. You kiss your girl, tell her she’s beautiful, suck her tits, play with her?” He doesn’t wait for Otto to answer. “They learn it from each other, and get us to do it.”  
Otto laughs. “Yeah, right.” He keeps laughing, because he knows for a fact that Debbi’s done girls. That was part of what made her so hot. She’d do anything. She’d never do it in front of Otto, though. Always told him to fuck off. In a stupid way, that made it hotter. It only existed in his mind. She could be with anyone, she would be with anyone, but she was with him. Until she wasn’t, anyway.  
“Every woman is a little bit of a dyke. It’s how they make us want them. We know they’ll never completely belong to us. This is just,” Bud shrugs, “revenge.” The way that he says it doesn’t make it sound like it’s revenge. Just a fact. “You like doing all that for her?”  
It takes Otto a second to remember what Bud’s talking about. He gets as far as opening his mouth, before Bud asks, “You like her doing that for you?”  
“Fuck you.”  
“Fuck me,” Bud laughs. “I like it. I’m man enough to admit it.” They stop again, and Bud lights his cigarette.  
“You want me to do all that for you?” Otto tries to sound disgusted, or at least skeptical.  
“Not if it’s such an ordeal for you.”  
“I’ll get out and walk.”  
“Hand job, clothes on.” But Bud doesn’t sound very desperate when he says it. Maybe he’s not. Maybe it’s a joke, or an experiment, or a dare. Maybe they’ll get to Bud’s house and not do anything but sit around and drink until it gets dark. It almost makes Otto angry. Fuck Bud for thinking it’s that easy to scare him.  
“Yeah. Okay.”  
At least it’s dark in Bud’s house. The sun came up, so bright, it made Otto’s eyes water. It’s easier to do things in the dark. Bud takes off his jacket. Standing in the living room, they drink another beer. The panic left without Otto even realizing it. It’s not so bad, being here. It’s not so bad like this.  
“All right,” Otto sighs. He looks at the window. The blinds are closed. “If you really have to, you can kiss me.” He closes his eyes.  
Bud laughs, but it’s like Otto just told a joke. He’s not laughing at Otto. He’s laughing at a situation that has nothing to do with either of them. Maybe it is all a joke, and Otto will start laughing when Bud explains it to him. Maybe it’s a joke in another way. People just do things, and think that it matters, but it doesn’t matter, and later, you say something witty about it. Maybe that’s what it really means to be outside of everything. Nothing touches you.  
It’s soft. He can smell Bud’s aftershave, under the smell of cigarettes and beer. It’s too much work adding up the ways that it’s the same as with a girl, and different, so Otto just stops. He’s already doing it, so there’s no reason to look for reasons not to do it. It’s not bad, so he does it again. This time, he holds onto Bud, finds that it’s better that way, leaning against him. Fuck it. If he’s already done it once, he’s not going to become more of a fag if he keeps doing it.  
Bud pulls away, takes off his tie. He lights another cigarette, gets another beer. Otto says he doesn’t want another, in case Bud is trying to get him drunk. He’s already done that, though, a lot of times before now, and nothing happened then. What’s Otto supposed to make of that?  
He wants to tell Bud that he looks like his dad. Readjust the balance of power, or some shit. Bud doesn’t, though. Otto’s father is a beige man. Mellowed-out, sun-faded beige. The color of oatmeal and beach sand and wallpaper in the dentist’s office. Bud is in black and white. His skin is white. His hair is black. Even his eyes are so dark that they could be black. Even the circles under his eyes look black. It doesn’t matter that he’s not actually that dark or that light. It’s how he looks to Otto. Shadow splitting into grain up against something lighter.  
“What now?” Otto asks.  
“You tell me.”  
“Fuck you. You wanted me to come here.”  
“I’m not going to make you do something you don’t want to do.”  
Otto looks at the ceiling. “I guess we should probably go to your bedroom. That’s the appropriate place, right?”  
“All right.” Bud parks the cigarette in an ashtray, and leads Otto down the hall.  
It’s even darker in here, which makes Otto sort of relax. There are curtains on the window that don’t let in any light. No one could see through them. Otto takes off his shirt. That’s when he remembers that they agreed to keep their clothes on. It’s too late to do anything about it, so Otto takes off his shoes, then his pants. Bud’s just watching him, not looking turned on, or like much of anything. Maybe it takes a while to register what’s happening because Bud’s old. Otto leaves on his underwear, lies down on the bed, which is narrow and neat like a hotel bed. He closes his eyes. “Okay. Do it.”  
He hears Bud, still on the other side of the room, not as close as Otto expected him to be: “And they said romance was dead.”  
Otto wants to say that it’s not romance if you’re with a fucking guy, but shit, Bud has to know that. He’s old. He’s probably done this… a hundred times. Otto doesn’t want to think about that. He’s never asked if Bud rode around with someone before him. Whoever that guy was, Otto doesn’t give a fuck about him.  
“Take it or leave it.” That’s good. He’d smile, but he doesn’t want Bud to know that he’s proud of himself for saying it.  
He feels Bud sit down next to him. Still dressed, Bud leans over him, then onto him. It’s not his full weight. Otto wants to tell him to get on with it, that Otto can take it, but that’s too close to wanting it. If he doesn’t want it, though, why’s he here? Is he doing Bud a favor? Yes, he says to himself resolutely, he’s doing Bud a favor. Well, if he’s doing Bud a favor, shouldn’t he make it easier for him? Shit. That’s what’s fucking wrong. In whatever fucked-up way these things happen, Bud’s being nice to him.  
“Shit. All right,” Otto says, opens his eyes. He looks up at Bud, who looks the way he always does when he’s not angry; like he’s thinking of something that he once thought was funny, but now, he doesn’t know. “All right. Come here.” He leans up and kisses Bud. Tastes beer and cigarette again, smells it on his skin mixing with his cologne. It smells sort of good. Not like how girls smell good, like flowers or candy, but real. Bud didn’t get dressed that morning, or the night before, or the other day, thinking he wanted to look good for Otto, like he was trying to seduce him. It’s not how Bud is. He’s whatever you see, and what you don’t see immediately, he’ll tell you.  
He unbuttons Bud’s shirt, sort of feels around under it. Bud couldn’t hurt him. He’s not a big guy. If you want to be nice about it, he’s wiry. Skin and bones. Maybe he lived through the fucking Depression. Otto will have to ask him sometime. Otto’s parents aren’t that old. Thirty-eight and thirty-nine. Like they were shuffled off the assembly line one right after the other. They look like people look now, a lot of the time, smooth and regular. Yeah, like a fucking assembly line. Otto wonders if he looks that way to Bud. If Bud still thinks he’s twenty-one, or if he somehow guessed that Otto’s really eighteen. If Bud knows that about him, Otto should know it about Bud.  
“How old are you?” he asks.  
“It’s rude to ask people their age.” Bud takes off his shirt.  
“Yeah.” Maybe Bud really does know that Otto lies about his age. “Yeah. I guess you’re right.”  
There’s a tattoo on Bud’s left shoulder: “Velma”, in plain, tidy script. Like Velma just wrote her name there, like Bud belonged to her. Maybe he did. Maybe she left him, and that’s why he tried to kiss Otto in the car when they were drinking, and why he’s on top of Otto, now. It makes him sort of understand Bud. When someone leaves you, you get bitter, and when you get bitter, it makes you feel free in a way. It doesn’t matter what you do anymore, cos she certainly stopped giving a fuck. Otto touches the tattoo, covers it with his hand. There. Now, Velma can’t see a fucking thing. Bud sort of smiles, before taking Otto’s hand away so that he can get out of his undershirt. There’s a scar on his right side.  
“Did you get shot, or something?” Otto asks. Maybe Bud was in the war. Some war. Otto isn’t sure which one it would be.  
“No. My fucking appendix. It burst while I was on a job. I didn’t know what was wrong, so I just kept driving, holding my side. When I got out of the car, I had to try not to faint. Then, I drove myself to the hospital.”  
“Did you faint at the hospital?”  
“I did, actually. Right there, at the entrance. Somehow, I lost my driver’s license, so I was John Doe until I woke up after surgery. After all of that, I had to go to the DMV, stand in line for three hours to get a new one. It’s anesthesia.”  
“What’s anesthesia? You mean, what they give you for surgery?”  
“Yeah, that, but it anesthetizes your brain, standing in line. Everywhere you go, there’s a line. It’s not because there aren’t enough people working. The goddamn computers they’ve got can do the job of ten people. It’s calculated psychological torture. It numbs you, so you’re too goddamn relieved when it’s over to question it.”  
“It’s just how they do things,” Otto says.  
“It’s bullshit.”  
The whole time they’ve been talking, Bud’s been on top of him. They could be anywhere, except that they’re in bed, and Bud’s on top of him. This is too fucking weird.  
“Are you gonna fuck me, or what?” Otto asks. He doesn’t mean it to sound confrontational. He’d just like to know what the fuck is going on. If Bud got tired or bored, Otto’s going to go to the kitchen and get a beer. Fuck that. How could Bud get bored? This is only exactly what he fucking wanted.  
“That story about my appendix really got your motor running, huh?”  
“Fuck you.” But he can’t not laugh.  
“All right,” Bud says, kind of soft, touching Otto’s face, for a second like he really could be Otto’s dad. It makes Otto feel a weird kind of way, but then, of course, it’s weirder when he’s kissing Bud again, his hands on Bud’s bare shoulders, down his back. They’re sort of moving together. When you do that, it makes you feel like you know the other person. You’ve already agreed to something. You’re not even sure what it is yet, but you agreed to it. Just agreeing to it feels good. Being in something with someone. It feels good when Bud touches him, through his underwear at first, then inside. It’s the same, but it’s not. It’s not, because Otto’s too aware. He’d thought that he’d check out, somehow, part of him, that it’d be like jerking off, somehow. That there’d be detachment. It feels like a failed experiment. He should tell Bud to stop. If Otto stops, now, it’ll still be fine. He got drunk, tried to do someone a favor. It’s stupid, if people knew, they’d say he was a fucking idiot, that there was something wrong with him, but it’s not-  
It’s not all the way. It’s not something you can’t take back, about yourself. That it feels good, to feel it, and to feel it with this person. Part of the reason it feels good is because of who it is. Bud’s old, and Velma obviously did a number on him, but he’s okay to be with. He makes you feel like you’re alone. That was what Otto thought. That it would be like being alone. He hadn’t counted on Bud suddenly becoming another person. He’s even okay like this. Otto’s brain isn’t working right. Later, he’ll be normal again, and he’ll say to himself that he’s a fucking idiot, but he won’t be able to blame himself. Feeling good makes you do stupid things. He pulls Bud toward him, kisses him, feels Bud riding his hip as he’s fucking Bud’s hand. Really fucking stupid things, because he makes Bud stop for a second so that he can undo Bud’s pants, take out his dick. He wiggles out of his underwear. Yeah, he might as well. Throws them on the floor.  
“Okay,” he says.  
Then, they go back to doing it, and Otto’s stupid fucking brain was right. It is better this way. It’s better feeling Bud. Otto can’t get away from it, so even if he feels like he wants to, he’s stuck. It feels good being stuck like this. Something is going to happen, and it can’t be stopped.  
He digs his thumb into Velma when he comes.  
Then, he’s just holding onto Bud, feeling his nerves crackle like TV static, waiting for Bud to get off. Waiting is fine. It’s doing nothing, with a purpose. He feels Bud move. Listens to him. Thinks of what Bud said in the car, ducks his head down, and presses his mouth against Bud’s shoulder.  
“Just fucking lie back,” he says finally, and then they have to sort of bounce around to get Bud on his back and Otto on top of him. It’s like doing it to yourself. Except, it isn’t like that at all, because someone else is there. That’s why you do it. So that there’ll be someone else there. You don’t really want to be alone.  
He was anxious that Bud was going to say his name, which he’s always hated. Like, what are you supposed to say when someone says your name when they come? “Yes?” “You rang?” Bud clenches shut his eyes, and the only thing he says, pushing into Otto’s hand, with a sound like a laugh or a cough, is “Fuck”. As he’s catching his breath, he lets Otto stay where is. Then, Otto gets up, walks to the window. The curtains still don’t let in any light. It’ll be fine for a few minutes, but it’s going to end. As if agreeing with Otto, outside, a car goes by, playing loud music. It’s still daytime outside. The sun’s still bright. It’s still too fucking bright. Otto turns around. Bud’s zipping up his pants, patting around for his cigarettes. He lights one. He holds it out to Otto. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he takes a quick drag, and gives it back to Bud.  
“You want a ride somewhere, or something?” Bud asks.  
“Are you throwing me out?”  
“No. I just want to know if I’m going to have to put on my shirt, or if I can take a fucking nap.”  
“Do I have to go?”  
“Did I say that?”  
“No.”  
Bud sort of rolls his eyes, makes a conciliatory gesture. “I’m not pushing you out the door. If you want to, you can stay.”  
“What, here?” He hopes that Bud knows that he means in this room, not in the house. He hopes that Bud knows that he’s not that stupid.  
“Yeah. Right here.” Bud turns to the side, to put out his cigarette, then lies back again. He closes his eyes. The bed’s narrow, so they have to lie so close that they touch. Yeah, it’s fine.  
It’s fucking fine. It’s not weird yet. Otto lies back. It’s still all right.  
Otto’s falling asleep. As he does, he knows that he doesn’t have to worry. He’ll be out for hours. The night’s going to come again. When it does, it’s going to make Otto over in its image. Then, all of this will feel normal. Strange things always happen at night. That’s why, at night, they aren’t strange anymore. That’s the way it’s supposed to be.


End file.
